When You're Dead
by thetickingclock18
Summary: It's near end of the 22nd century and apocalypse is approaching. The galaxy is still unprepared, the Reapers are coming, and the only person who can stop them is... dead? Well, Mr. Potter will fix that.
1. Cursed Return

Disclaimer: The Bioware's Mass Effect games and JKR's Harry Potter series are not mine.

* * *

Shepard was falling from the ship. She could see the burning embers that engulfed the Normandy as the explosions shook it apart… Only a moment ago it had still been in all its glory, crew riding off their rush of victory from the battle at the Citadel. An unlikely ambush was all it took to end the legend of Commander Shepard.

The enemy ship was only a miniature dot in her vision as it turned to exit and disappeared into FTL speeds. Its work was done.

Her oxygen tank and shoulder was still punctured from the explosion near the escape pod. She wouldn't be able to survive in space for long. The cold of space started to seep in the cracks of her armor. A brief spike of pain, before a shudder of cold and numbness spread up her chest. Death was inevitable.

Her thoughts drifted towards the rest of Normandy's crew. The ones that made it to the escape pods would be fine. Someone would eventually pick up the Normandy's distress call and come to investigate. The ones that had perished during the hull breaches… she hadn't had the time to account for all of her crew. The injured or dead were still trapped aboard the ship. At least she had managed to save Joker. They would need his wisecracks to lighten the mood during the funerals.

She felt herself being slowly pulled into the orbit of the ice planet below. Her suit's oxygen levels were hitting rock bottom. She would probably suffocate before she experienced atmospheric reentry.

Her crew could carry on without her. They had to. They all knew the true threat of the Reapers. Even with her limbs dead, her hands clenched into fists.

Breathing was getting laborious. Shepard knew she had moments left. A pounding began in the back of her skull. Her body knew she was about to die.

It was a romantic notion, Shepard thought. The captain going down with her ship.

And then she was falling into the darkness…

Falling…

Last thing she was aware of after was the terrible headache that accompanied her to the void.

. .

A burning core pulsed at the heart of its star. Deep fiery streams of plasma and dark spots swam across the surface, the shifting auroras defined by the star's immense magnetic fields. The superheated tendrils undulated between their many shades of red and blue.

Behind a polarized curtain, the star was as bewildering as it was incredible to look upon. Without it, the true nature was indiscernible.

The Illusive Man turned his attention from the star's magnificence to the haptic interface at his side.

"How is Shepard's body, Miranda?"

A woman's face appeared on the display, bearing remarkable resemblance to a long-dead actress.

"Heavily damaged, but still recoverable. A preliminary scan reveals injury to major organs. A clone may be necessary in case of one is unsalvagable. Thankfully, the neural system is still intact. I've forwarded an analysis on tentative project costs."

He removed a cigarette from his coat pocket and ignited its end using a burner on his expensive cantilever chair. Miranda Lawson looked on with practiced patience. After all, the Illusive Man was a slow and habitual smoker. He could smoke a stick for hours easily and through multiple conversations.

He took a long draught before continuing.

"That's fine. I'm confident that our prototype cybernetics will be able to restore Shepard. What of Feron and Dr.T'Soni?"

"Feron, the drell, was left behind in the Shadow Broker's base on Alingon. We should assume that he has already been interrogated and the Shadow Broker will have any knowledge that he did on Cerberus dealings."

He tapped the smoking end on the chair arm to dislodge the ashes.

"A disappointing loss, but also acceptable. Go on."

"Liara T'Soni is onboard the Minuteman Station currently. From what I can tell, the asari was quite close to Feron. I've let her stay on the station for another two days, until one of our shuttles can transport her to Illium." The Cerberus operative hesitated. "She was critical in Shepard's retrieval, sir, and I think—"

He set the cigarette down.

"I want you to keep an eye on her, Miranda. Undoubtedly T'Soni will want retribution. Give her the necessary resources she'll need to fight the Shadow Broker."

He pulled an outlying display closer and tapped on it a few times.

"She doesn't seem the type to willingly trust help from Cerberus, sir."

"People are willing to do anything when their friends are in danger. We present T'Soni her best chance to find Feron. She won't refuse."

"Understood."

"Then is there anything else I should be aware of?"

"That is all."

"Excellent. You are dismissed."

"Lawson out." The transmission cut. The Illusive Man was left alone with silence and a sense of satisfaction.

He switched screens to a diagram of a woman's body. Measurements and analysis from an autopsy. Pieces of armor that had been recovered, but the chestpiece was missing. Several areas —sides, extremities— were highlighted with red. After a moment's consideration, he deleted it.

Turning his attention back to the brilliant sphere outside, he picked up his cigarette.

"We're close."

. .

Her eyes fluttered open. Groaning, Shepard rolled over and got off her bed.

"What…"

She sleepily grabbed for the table where she usually left her omnitool. The orange screen appeared and the room lights activated, revealing the commander's cabin. She checked the digital clock. It was blank. No numbers displayed.

"Huh." She frowned.

There was a twinge of phantom pain, but Jane brushed it off and blindly found her way towards the bathroom. She felt her pupils shrink as they acclimatized to the brightness.

Shepard made a move to get dressed but found that she was already wearing her uniform. She must've been too exhausted last night to remember switching back into her sleeping gown.

Exiting the captain's quarters, Shepard thought the Normandy looked emptier than normal. Then it clicked— Kaidan wasn't at his usual station.

A boyish crewman saluted her good morning and she nodded back.

"Mr. Crosby. Where is the rest of the crew?"

"In their rooms or at their stations, ma'am. Officer Pressly is waiting for you on deck."

So, already morning then. Shepard hoped that she hadn't slept too late. Problem with the omnitool forgotten, she moved towards the back of the ship. Her arms felt a little stiff, so she rubbed them absentmindedly.

There she found her XO at the CIC, his normal station. However, the galaxy map was blank. Pressly turned to face her and gave a salute.

"The ship almost ready to leave. The journey won't be the same without Jeff, but I doubt we'll have difficulty taking off." He pulled up a screen on the Normandy's supplies.

Shepard shook her head, confused.

"Leave? Where are we going?"

Pressly's expression suddenly turned solemn. He took his hand off the galaxy map. Shepard looked on, not understanding but with a feeling of dread slowly creeping upon her.

"You really don't remember, Jane?"

"Remember? I…" She took a step back.

Flashes. Falling. The cold and numbness of space. Explosions. Joker in an escape pod. Pressly's unconscious form lying on the bridge. And then everything fell into place. She looked back to her XO, as if seeing him in a new light.

"So it wasn't just a nightmare after all."

Pressly sighed deeply, also recollecting.

"I'm afraid not."

Shepard closed her eyes and her thoughts flashed back to her final moments. Everyone serving on board the Normandy knew the risks. She hadn't been afraid of dying, and she wasn't going to now.

"So this is it. The Normandy's final flight. Wh-who's onboard with us?"

"You, me, and nineteen others of the crew so far," He replied, checking a list he pulled up, "Joker and the team must have made it out safely."

Shepard nodded to confirm his data, relieved. It could have been worse.

"And now what?"

He paused, shoulders stiffening.

"Where do people go after they die, commander?"

She had no answer.

"Then I guess we'll just have to find out for ourselves." He muttered to himself, before accessing the ship's coms. "Crew! Disengage landing gear! Prepare for takeoff!" He turned to the commander.

Shepard hesitated.

"I..."

Pressly read something from her expression.

"I know it's not easy, Jane. We'll be fine to wait just a little longer, see if anyone shows up. Take the time you need."

"Thank you, Charles."

Shepard returned to her cabin. She now realized the strange apathy she saw on the rest of her crew's faces reflected their state of shock. Their mortality hadn't sunk in yet.

It was exactly as she remembered it, right before the attack had deactivated the artificial gravity and thrown all her things across the room. Neat rows of pictures sat on her counters. Memorabilia and family and the team on the Normandy.

She took a deep breath. No crying.

"Dammit!" Shepard grabbed the model of Sovereign she had received and hurled it at a wall in rage. Without her there, nobody would be left to spread the warnings or prepare. All life in the galaxy will be harvested by the reaper's decree. Well, at least that meant she would have more company.

Shepard sat down and stared at the miniature metal model, huffing.

"Never thought afterlife would be like this…"

She suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to get out. Normandy was once a symbol of belonging and freedom to her— now it just felt like a suffocating tomb.

. .

The Normandy was parked in an open roof hangar. The sky above her was pale blue filled with beautiful bright clouds that reminded Jane of Earth and Eden Prime.

The hangar was strange, too. It lacked the bustle of flight staff checking the crew and ship parts, no machinery or cables or landing lights on the walls or even halls leading to other hangars.

There was a door near the back. A wide-cut window gave view to a room full of monitors and a man working at the station. Jane twisted the doorknob and the steel door opened easily. It didn't feel right. She hadn't seen an actual doorknob since she left the military academy. Inside the room was a desk, a keyboard, and a few old-fashioned, non-holographic monitors that gave Shepard flashbacks to vids of the twenty first century.

The flight dispatcher was wearing a naval working uniform and tapping through numerous status screens, muttering to himself. Jane closed the door behind her and walked up behind him.

The screens flickered to another slide. It looked like the profile of a crewmember.

"It's a real hassle, organizing all these ship departures." The operator said without looking up. His fingers flew and the screen rolled down. Addison Chase— parents infirm, romantic heartbreak, and little sister not yet out of school. One of the screens showed a video recording of a young, pigtailed girl playing with flowers. A few others displayed familial connections and status— all deceased.

He grunted and crossed out the name on the flight list.

"This one's got too much baggage. He'll have to stay behind until it's dealt with."

He swiveled his chair to face the woman standing behind him.

"Hey there. You going too?"

Shepard shook her head.

"No... not yet."

The operator shrugged and turned his attention back to the monitors.

"What's going to happen to him?" Shepard asked carefully.

"Mr. Chase? He'll be stuck here, wandering around and watching those ships come and go until he's ready to leave. Make his peace, so to speak."

"Go where?"

"Heaven. Or something similar. It's all a matter of perspective, of course." The operator waved a hand to gesture at the hangar.

"Can you believe? A century ago this place was just a dingy old train station. Okay, well it wasn't that dingy."

"A one-way train station." She observed.

The man sighed. "Yeah. Once you leave, you don't come back." He reached for a cup at his side. "Unless there are some really special circumstances involved… Coffee?"

A waft of the awakening-aroma reached Shepard. It was invigorating— a breath of clearness and purpose that reminded her of life. She started, and looked around. The surroundings were already returning to their original drab colorless. What was this place doing to her?

"No thanks."

The operator —but Shepard doubted that was all he was— shrugged again and took a sip.

"Coffee," he repeated, "it's the best-tasting stuff around here. That and apples."

She ignored the comment. Instead...

"Is there a way out of here?"

The man considered it. She suddenly became more conscious on where her thoughts were leading. How did someone simply _leave_ afterlife?

"Well, you could always try the emergency exit." He mused and tilted his head towards another door on the other side of the room. It had a big exit sign on it.

She walked around, trying to disguise the eagerness in her footsteps, and twisted the doorknob. It was locked. The clinging hope inside her wilted.

"I said special circumstances, didn't I?" He commented. "You'll need a key to open it."

Shepard spun around, patience evaporating. What type of emergency exit needed a key?

"I have a mission... And I can't leave my team behind like this! The entire galaxy is at stake…"

"Why don't you trust your team to carry on the mission?"

"I have to be there myself— I can't go until I've seen the Reapers finally defeated!"

He shook his head, sighing. Did everyone who passed through tell him the same? How many resentful souls had he denied?

"Lady, death doesn't do favors."

Shepard walked back to his desk, reigning in herself.

"Look— the reapers come back and you'll have billions of people coming through here. You'll be here checking out flight departures forever. And then when everybody leaves, you'll have no one left to talk with."

"So what do I do? Let you go back and experience whatever time is left remaining in your life?"

"No. Let me go back and stop them."

He paused, smiling a little. His eyes looked through her.

"You? A little, young woman fighting fleets of titanic, million-year-old space squids?"

Shepard wasn't fazed.

"Surely you noticed the two kilometer long one coming through a few months back? Along with a crazy turian called Saren? Or maybe it was too big to fit in the hangar here."

Surprised, the operator laughed— a genuine one this time— and turned back to his console.

"You've got wit. I like that."

It was decided then. He typed in a name and the screens flickered.

"Commander Jane Shepard of the SSV Normandy. Soldier and biotic adept of the Systems Alliance N7 Special Forces. Spectre of the Citadel Council. Paragon Rating: 65 percent. Renegade: 27 percent."

An outside ring of previously dark monitors glowed as the screens struggled to display everything, a web of information growing larger and larger.

"Date of Birth: April 11, 2154 CE. Date of death: May 1, 2183. Childhood had you grow up in an orphanage of the metropolis Regina, Earth. Adopted at eight by Steven Coln and his wife, brought to the nation of Japan for a year. Then your adopted family moved again to the colony of Mindoir, a family-owned plantation. At sixteen there was the pirate attack, and you were transferred to Alliance custody. At eighteen you finally enlisted for the military, already a full-fledged spacer. Only twenty two when you participated in repelling the attack at Elysium, a big war hero. Tweny three when your marine unit was ambushed and slaughtered by a Thresher Maw. Twenty six when you finished N7 training. At twenty nine, you earned the title of Commander in the Alliance Navy, bestowed Spectre privileges by the Citadel Council, defeated the rogue Spectre Saren, and then was killed after an attack from an unidentified ship."

More blank screens flickered on at the fringes of the mass. The operator nodded to her.

"Did I get it all?"

"Yeah, pretty much." Shepard replied distractedly. Her eyes shifted between the screens. There was a vid of her as a little kid back in her orphanage days, taken in by a friendly matron. Blurred photos of her growing up, grim photos of dirty overalls, bruised complexions and ripped pants. Then clear, happier ones in Mindoir. Pictures of family and friends that she thought had been lost in the batarian raids. Evidently, her deceased parents had brought some with them to the other side.

Then there was her in the Alliance uniform. Visiting in Rio de Janeiro. A photo of a thresher maw corpse on Akuze. Her in N7 armor. A brand new Normandy. Then a whole panel of badges— Medal of Honor, Distinguished Service Medal, Distinguished Combat Medal, Medal of Valor, Spectre Inductee, N7 Elite, and a whole lot of other ones that she didn't know she had.

The last screen was a vid with a timestamp fairly recent— in fact, it was posted some time after her death. A newsreel of her funeral.

She didn't see the operator's smile widen at her sharp intake of breath.

It was Kaiden and Joker and Liara and Garrus and Tali and Wrex. A picture of her rested on the wall above the mahogany coffin. Her mahogany coffin. They took turns, putting things on the empty casket. Flowers, photos, and a gun (which made her snort). Anderson went up on the podium in front of the attendees to make a speech, no doubt to commemorate the Normandy, and Joker followed after him, looking miserable all the while. The rest of the team weren't in a talkative mood. It was humbling, in a way, to see all the people that had come to remember her. But it also made stronger her need to return.

"A sudden departure always leaves a void. But people move on, Shepard. Then they find new things to fill their hearts."

The operator turned around, looking gravely serious.

"You go back— things will have changed. People will have changed. Your friends might not recognize you anymore. Your friends might already have families— might be retired or dead. You might come back to the living before spaceflight was invented, or a hundred years after the Reapers put raze to the galaxy. You might have to start over."

The bright background of glowing squares framed his chair and cast the features of his face into darkness. The body he wore like a costume dissipated into it, leaving only his eyes— and his true nature—behind. Only the scintillating green lights of his irises were visible: never had he seemed more like a wraith before now.

"You think we have passes, 'get back to life frees', Shepard? People can go back when the stakes are highest, when all life is in danger, and when reality dangles by a thread. You don't go back to _live,_ or to enjoy your life. I'm letting you go back because you're right– you're the only one who can finally bring the cycle to an end. Don't make this my mistake."

The operator stood up from his chair with finality. The screens behind him dissolved. The man reached behind for his pant pocket and pulled out a ring of colored keys. He picked through each one patiently, until he pulled off a key with a scarlet-colored stone on the end.

"Carnelian," the man murmured as he tossed it to Jane, "fitting, I suppose. Last chance to back out now."

But Jane wasn't looking at him. Outside the window, Pressly had come down from the Normandy. She didn't say anything— it was a silent communication that passed through their gazes— hers with regret, and his understanding and acceptance. She wasn't coming with him this time.

Slowly, they raised their hands solemnly for one last salute. With great effort, Pressly broke his lingering gaze and turned around to get back onto the ship, out of her death, out of her life.

"Good luck, Jane." The operator said. "I'll be watching."

. .

It felt like her body was being sucked through a tube by navel. Kaleidoscopic swirls seeped into the insides of her eyelids while gravity constantly changed its pull on her. There was no air resistance or loud sounds, but something instinctual told her that she really didn't want to open her eyes.

It certainly wasn't what she expected after stepping through the doorway. Not that bad, actually. Reminded her of those days back in N7 camp, vertigo training.

Heat seeped out from the key in her palm. It would vibrate and give off a sense of tugging every once in a while, as if the little crystal key was exerting energy to pull her through. She supposed it made as much sense as anything.

Then the key started rattling severely. She started to hear faint voices…

"—expecting a report soon."

The key gave a final flash of heat, burning its way into her palm, and suddenly Shepard was splayed out on a cold surface. She opened her eyes immediately and reflexively sat up to a cold, clinical air.

"I don't need you reminding me, Wilson."

"...If you say so."

The woman harrumphed a little, before changing her tone.

"Agent Lawson, reporting in. Progress is slow, but subject shows signs of recovery. Major organs are again functional, and there are also signs of rudimentary neurological activity. Fully organic tissues have taken too long to process, so we are now using low quantities of bio-synthetic fusions to accelerate the process."

She was sitting on what looked to be an… operating table? The lab had took some similarities with Chakwas's medbay. There was a man standing right beside Shepard, typing on a console and seemingly unaware of his patient's awakening.

"On the other hand, the structural damage from Agent Rasa's defection was superficial. The weaknesses in the mech programming have been resolved and our cyberwarfare suits are back online. I have replaced the injured or lost personnel with reinforcements from Minuteman Station. The project will continue to run at full capacity. Weekly reports will be sent. Lawson out."

The source of the voice was a woman sitting at terminal at the end of the lab in a white uniform.

The man turned towards Shepard, and she recognized the logo printed on his left shoulder. Cerberus. Alarmed, she jumped off the table, threw her shoulder into the officer's chest— and tumbled right through.

"Miranda," the man said to colleague, completely oblivious. "her heart rate is spiking again."

The other Cerberus officer looked up from her station.

"Increase the size of the sedative dose. Don't let her wake up, Wilson."

"I don't understand. This shouldn't be happening. We just administered her one a few hours ago. The calculations can't just be wrong."

"You must've made an error."

"Impossible. These doses are enough to make even a krogan drowsy. Anymore and there might be adverse effects on the tissues." Wilson tapped on his display, and then the whirring of a machine. "There. Another one. Heartbeat slowing down. Heartbeat stabilizing. Vitals stabilizing."

Jane, still stunned from her flip into the medbay's walls, used a hand to steady her head. Halfway there, she stopped and stared at the hand. Imprinted on the skin, a red swirl curled across her palm. Except it was brighter and clearer than any tattoo, almost as if it was burned on… Right. It must have been the magic key that had also turned her into a ghost. She felt stupid for even thinking that in her head.

"Stay here and continue to monitor the subject's status, Wilson. I'll go and check over at D-wing. We might need to synthesize a kidney; the subject's left side was severely damaged. Results from urine tests have been fluctuating below normal range."

After Miranda left, Wilson stopped nodding and grumbled to himself.

"Right, and just leave me here to a creepy body for company. That bitch."

The female Cerberus officer left and the male took her station. It gave Shepard a clear look at the whole medbay— including the single patient lying prone on the second operating table. The subject was buried underneath a mask and a mess of tubes, but the vibrant red hair was a dead giveaway.

Her.


	2. Astronomical Dawn

Disclaimer available on first chapter, and congrats to my 100th story favorite, Dark Blazing Death and my 300th follower, Dovahkiin1503. Wicken25, you're onto something there.

* * *

The former Cerberus agent maneuvered her ship closer and closer to the grey gas giant, circling around its moon to distort its exhaust trails. She had long forgotten the name of the planet, this dull orb sunk deep within her memories.

The miners had given it names, but none of them stuck— all it was was a forgotten piece of dirt, hidden in a dark corner of the galaxy. Not even the Illusive Man was aware of it. In Rasa's desperate flight through Alliance space, the hounds of hell hot on her heels, she had remembered and recovered this little of her childhood. It seemed right to return home.

There was a lonely miner settlement in the north hemisphere. Unlike the rest of the planet, it had mediocre levels of palladium. Enough for investment from a small mining company. That was where she would find refuge.

She activated the secondary thrusters and manually steered the ship down through the atmosphere. Rasa had removed her dependence on navigation VI a long time ago. Dependence meant weakness. If a VI ever turned on the pilot, they would be helpless. But not her.

. .

"Dammit!" the old man swore, kicking the blocky car, "Dirty old useless piece of trash."

That pair of engines had been with him for over twenty years. Now it finally had enough, breaking down in the middle of one of their trips.

The VI flickered.

 _This ship has damaged exhaust ports._ It repeated, _Please replace your exhaust ports before starting the thrusters._

The man gave it another kick. The VI fell silent.

He looked down.

"Well, kid, I guess we're stuck here."

. .

It only took half an hour for Rasa to make her way down to what was once a respected settlement. It pleased her to see the deserted state of the camp. If there were still life inside, old miners who would still remember the strange child that used to work there...

The structural supports holding up the sole facility against the rocky planet's winds were dense, but now they have started corroding under the unceasing onslaught. Rasa could only marvel at the faithfulness in which the building served its duty, even with its owners gone for years. It was nothing like the fickle bonds humans made with one another.

. .

"His eye?! You little idiot! What were you thinking?!"

"...I was scared..."

"You left him alive... he's going to tell everybody about you... he's probably doing it right now... they're going to arrest and fine us... I'm never going find work anywhere else... I'm never going to get off this god-forsaken planet- You useless piece of trash! You just fucking ruined decades of my work!"

"Wha- it wasn't my fault! I didn't want to hurt him!"

"If we're found out, you pay for this big time, hear me?"

"I'm sorry! I swear I won't do it again!"

"I don't care for your sorry, stupid bitch!"

. .

Rasa hacked open the main computer and walked inside, the rock walkways crumbling underneath her heels. Metal railings browned. The colorful signs that illuminated building fronts, removed. Doors, chained closed permanently. Thankfully, the basic power still could kick back on.

She passed lines of rooms, all filled with lockers. Scans showed them empty except for a few old, old bloodstains. The place where she spilled her first blood.

It had been such a futile venture. Rasa made more money on a single mission than she could make in a decade of mining. The labor and toil that they did for nothing... All the profits stolen by the incompetent, corrupt overseers. What a cruel world for them.

In front of the building at the very end, she unsealed the entrance and made her way inside.

. .

"You're telling me somebody died just an hour ago? Brockturn?"

"We found him with his own barber knife stuck in his chest, sir. Certainly dead."

"Murder!?"

"Yes. It was that little boy that was always with him. We have him in custody right now."

"The little boy! Is that even possible?"

"The evidence is quite clear, Mr. Goldman. He even assaulted another miner beforehand."

"I've never heard of anything like this happening at the other operations... this isn't good. You have the lad? Bring him over here to clear things up."

"Yessir."

"What a shame. He was a respectable man."

. .

A few rooms comprised the central operations office.

An old datapad belonging to the last manager in charge laid on the nearest desk. Documents of what led to the facility shutdown, and directions in case it would ever be needed again.

Its interior was a mess. Somebody had searched the room clumsily. Drawers opened, desks upturned— looters. Besides the first though, the rooms were completely bare.

The level underneath the office was a briefing room. But it sometimes doubled for interrogation. The one underneath that was the detention center.

Rasa turned around and left. There was nothing in there of her interest.

She needed to return to her ship. She had spent enough time reminiscing as it was.

. .

"There's nothing left for me here. I have no family, no future. Take me with you. Anywhere. I don't care, as long as it's not here."

The woman in front of her paused, and turned around.

"...Do you know why I work alone?"

"You don't like people?"

"It's because they can't be trusted. If I brought you with me, someday you'll betray me, intentionally or not. Somebody will use you against me."

"Why?"

The woman crouched down, patting her shoulder.

"That's just life. And that's why it's always best to trust nobody but yourself."

"...I just want a ride. That's all I'm asking."

"You're a resourceful kid. I believe you can find another way off this rock. Without me."

Rasa bowed her head, her hands reaching behind her back.

"...Goodbye."

"Good luck, boy."

. .

" _Unidentified female human colonist found dead, ship stolen. Themis authorities unclear on what transpired._ "

. .

Behind a stack of cargo, in the bowels of her stolen freighter, a wrath of cables tethered new life to a tank. Rasa wasted no time returning to the new object of her obsession. The reason why she had risked her life in deserting Cerberus.

The biometric scans told her the subject was functioning well. She was dreaming innocently, in thoughts and worlds beyond Rasa's comprehension. Not even once in their journey here, had she woken up. For all intents and purposes, the woman inside the tank was a unborn fetus. An unborn clone.

Commander Shepard's unborn clone.

Rasa stepped up to put her hand against the glass, gazing upon the form of the clone, now _her_ clone, with longing. Oblivious, the subject's limbs drifted aimlessly in the fluid in continued slumber.

"A long time ago somebody told me that people can't be trusted." Her eyes searched the face of the clone. "That they'll betray you the first chance that they get."

Footsteps.

"She was right." Someone said behind her. There was muffled gunshot and Rasa's body spasmed— first from surprise, second from pain.

She coughed up bloody spittle and slid slowly down the tank's side, head thudding against the metal bottom. A single shot that punctured her shields like it was air— that was the power of the Harpy, a heavily modded Cerberus-made pistol. Rasa was very well acquainted with the gun. It was a favored instrument among the highest tiers of Cerberus's black ops.

The slow footsteps approached. A gloved hand took her shoulder and rolled her over.

"You heard me coming. Why didn't you roll to the side?" The older woman asked, crouching face-to-face. Her's was concealed by a dark, nondescript helmet.

Rasa coughed more, lips stained red.

"I couldn't have risked it." She tapped her fingers against the tank. "It would've penetrated the tank, killed her. But... you. How did you find me? I was sure nobody followed me..."

"I didn't. We knew you would come here, and so I waited. You thought this place was safe? No one escapes from Cerberus. You should have known that."

The Cerberus assassin stood up again, fingering the pistol.

"Now one more question, before you die. Why? Why steal the clone?"

"Why her?" A ragged breath. "I couldn't have left her with Cerberus. They were going to throw her out— they had no use for another Shepard. She had so much potential. So innocent. It reminded me what I was like long ago."

"I was going to train her, to trust her. She was going to be different from everyone else. We were going to go places." The injured woman tilted her head sideways. "She needs a purpose..."

"Absolutely." Rasa's head shot up in surprise.

Then the pistol spat again and her head fell backwards. "it's exactly why she wasn't left to you."

In practiced motions, Rasa's assassin removed her target's working omnitool and secondary omnitool, before double-checking the pulse. She was throughly dead.

Her personal omnitool's data, what little of Rasa's thoughts, memories and records that she had managed to discover, slowly expunged itself. And the world forgot that a person of her name ever existed.

Work finished, the assassin holstered her pistol and stood up, now gazing on the tank-born, still floating serenely in the tank.

"Oh, you have no idea what plans we have for her..."

. .

 _From: Canis Major_

 _To: Canis Minor_

 _Message: Rasa terminated._

The leader of Cerberus smoked his cigarette thoughtfully as he contemplated the haptic interface in front of him. The lines on the screen scrolled past swiftly, leaving no time for anybody to get a good look at the data. Even if someone caught a line, it would be useless to them, the data coded into undecipherable hieroglyphs. Remnants left of a vanished race. But the Illusive Man seemed to have no problem reading it, his electric-blue irises darting side to side.

A feminine voice chimed.

"You have an incoming transmission, sir."

He closed the stream of data and removed the cigarette for a second to give his affirmation.

"Patching it through."

Immediately, the form of another sitting man emerged on the holographic pad behind the desk. He sported a tan suit, a short boxed beard and a crop of graying but still blond hair on his head— rarity, these days. The Illusive Man swiveled around, the orb of light behind him heightening his silhouette.

"Jack, old friend! It's already been some time since our last talk. Time flies when busy, does it not?"

"Yes it does, Roth." Jack replied. "I understand your feelings entirely. Running an organization is not done casually, I assure you."

Roth nodded. "I trust you have more than enough on your hands. Speaking of your work, how goes your most ambitious project? Hopefully not for much longer. My employees notice when billions of credits suddenly disappear. It shows an inexplicable absence, yes? Even with someone as talented as my secretary."

"I didn't mean to cause you trouble, Roth. Please offer Dr. Eva my apologies." Jack turned his head to read from his console. "As for Project Lazarus, it's doing very well. From the estimates, there will be only a month left until its completion."

"Hm. You always had a knack for project names. Good to hear, Jack." Roth replied. "In that case, I am ahead of you."

"Oh?"

The business magnate waved a hand to the side, holographic pad forming the diagram of a ship. Jack considered its shape with admiration. The ship's arcing back and sharp teeth was reminiscent of a leaping swordfish.

"Your ship is being constructed ahead schedule. By now, even I can see it's going to be a true beauty." Roth chuckled and tapped the holograph, which enlarged and covered with plating. On the sleek skin blazed a Cerberus logo. "The Normandy SR-2 will be space-worthy in a week. Those turians may be hard-asses, but no one can argue with their ship designs. I can't wait to see it launched."

"You and me both, Roth." Jack tilted his head away from the image to pick a glass from the side of his chair. "I doubt Commander Shepard will find her new ship lacking."

"But let us move onto more urgent matters. Has there been any word on the missing colonies? I understand the Alliance sent personnel to the planet Ferris Fields some time ago."

Roth's smile disappeared. Skin creased into lines on his face.

"Indeed. The Roanoke issue, it has been christened. But the report submitted by Alliance has been whitewashed, before shelved by the Security Council." He gestured again, and a hologram of the dusty green planet replaced the previous, followed by three others. "I will send you a report I obtained. Nearly two hundred thousand colonists are missing. The total body count reaches over five hundred thousand. And our unknown alien is still lurking in the Terminus Systems, looking for more. It seems that we are left in a position helpless to take action..."

Jack bent the spent cigarette underneath his fingers, putting it into an ash tray on his multi-purpose chair. Roth watched on grimly as his friend pulled out another one and ignited it automatically.

"Not unknown to me, Roth." Jack said. "Cerberus suspects that the aliens behind the abductions are Collectors, an insectoid race originating beyond the Omega 4 Relay."

"That makes things more difficult." The German rubbed his chin. "What we need is a strike on their homeworld, to send a message of force. But travelling through the Omega 4 Relay will be a suicide mission."

"No worries, Roth. I have just the person for that." Jack smiled, eyes dark. "It will be a fitting message to be delivered by Cerberus."

. .

The system's heavy sun sat upon the jagged half-hulls of ancient, dead ships. The tarnished, peeling plates sank ruinously into the reddish muddy soil.

A heavy-built alien knelt down on one dusty knee to inspect a bloodied body lying underneath a ship's brow, a rising sun painted at the center of soldier's blue chestplate. The planet's greenhouse atmosphere sweltered the krogan warlord with immense heat, but he paid it no mind. Korlus was nothing compared to Tuchanka.

The mercenary was unresponsive, so the krogan slapped the shoulder to get the merc awake. Groaning, the Blue Sun soldier reached up and detached his helmet. A human.

"Damn krogans. It feels like I'm just wasting heat sinks shooting at the hulks." He put a hand on his head, squinting at the warlord in the dull light. The merc's eyes were unfocused and a trail of blood flowed down his head.

The krogan snorted and brushed his hands off. "Your complaints only further prove the tenacity of my creations, weakling."

Eyes filled with horror as the human looked up into the scarred face.

"Shit, shit!" He groped for his gun, but it was lying meters away and he was in no position to get it. "Shit— no, Okeer?"

Okeer grunted, reaching behind his back for a stasis container. "Who were you expecting? Your friends?" He gestured to the bodies that laid around the position. "Your cowardly commander? Pah!"

He set it down carefully, wiping the metallic dust off and twisting the lid open. Inside, the liquid sploshed and objects bumped against the sides.

"Oh thank goodness. If it was another crazy I would've been done for." The merc leaned his head back. "What are you doing out here? Jedore said..."

The warlord barked a laugh at the sound of the name while he detached the armor from his wrists. He stretched his blackened fingers and then curled them into a fist, grunting in satisfaction.

"That human is a fool if she thinks she is worthy enough to command me." Okeer turned back to the downed human. "There are peculiar... things, found out here on a battleground, that won't be anywhere else. They are necessary for me to finish my project."

The merc only looked confused.

"Things? What things?"

Okeer pulled back a clawed hand and violently plunged it into the center of the armor's painted sun. The merc gave up a choked gasp, before slumping.

"Ingredients."

Standing up, Okeer backed away from the corpse and dropped the bleeding heart into the cylindrical canister with a splash. It was now just another body among the many littering the compound's perimeters, shelters and trenches fashioned from decrepit wreckage. The scientist smiled at the familiar smell and dark rivulets that ran down his arm. In the glorious days he would have enough to bath in it. Now he had no choice but to starve his bloodlust.

The krogan pulled up his gloves and picked up his container. Okeer made it barely a meter before the dead merc's radio suddenly came to life.

"—Ivanov! Do you read me? The right flank has been overrun by the krogan. We're sending a squad to reinforce your defenses. What's the status of your position? Ivan? Ivan!"

There was a snap and crackle as Okeer pressed his foot down to crush the transmitter. He surveyed the surroundings with a keen eye, before disappearing into a sea of rust. When the reinforcements arrived, all they would find would be a field of dead bodies.

. .

For such an old krogan, he moved fast. His time in this pit of a planet had left him bereft of the intimidating mass he used to possess, allowing Okeer to traverse through Blue Sun lines swiftly, unnoticed. But that hardly mattered. His physicality was not what had first made him the warlord he was among his kind.

"Rana!" He barked as he clanked his way up to the research lab. The doors depressurized and opened. "Have you produced any results on synthesizing a second—"

"Okeer! There you are." The irritating human called out, hands on her hips. Behind her, Rana shrugged helplessly in apology.

"Human." Okeer growled. "I am busy with work. Either speak your mind, or leave us."

The mercenary leader snorted, ignoring his demand. Such arrogance! But alas, Okeer still had use for her for a while longer.

"What I want to know is where the hell have you been? I didn't take you for the type to abandon your poor assistant and side project for farseeing. Not that there's much to see out there."

"I have abandoned nothing. Data collection is key to my work in improving the krogan. Even the slightest deviation in their creation will differ end results. Only under truly unforgiving conditions— the trials of combat— will I understand the complete extent of their capabilities."

He walked over to a bench and placed down his container.

"And what's that you're holding over there? Scavenging now?" Okeer blinked in irritation at her curiosity.

"It is the final step needed in creating the perfect krogan soldier."

Jedore's interest was only further piqued.

"Well, Warlord? What does it do?"

Okeer waved his hand dismissively at her.

"For you? Nothing. It is part of an ancient Krogan tradition... not something an outsider can grasp. Perhaps if you are lucky, you will see the results, in time."

"Heh. Whatever. Just don't forget when the next row of tanks are due. You won't like it if you're absent the next time I come to collect."

Back turned, Okeer merely replied with a grunt. Jedore walked out, looking annoyed.

Rana approached the old krogan, blue face blinking apologetically.

"I'm sorry. Jedore just came in. She's getting more impatient every waiting day."

He shook his head in disappointment. Rana knew the sensitivity of their equipment as well as he did. And she still let the humans fool around inside their lab? What did it take to get good help these days?

"Asari, so weak-willed. Have you synthesized a second tube?"

"Er... I'm having trouble implementing the collector tech. They don't seem to work as before. I think we may have damaged it in some way."

Okeer paused, musing. That was impossible- he did not miss any crucial step in activating the first template- so it left only one real possibility: sabotage.

"What strange systems Collectors function on... so advanced, yet so primitive." He came to a hard decision. "However, it is ultimately... irrelevant. You may abandon your current efforts, Rana. We must focus on the primary subject, and make it perfect. Destroy what remains of the device I received from them."

"Wha-Why?"

"Even you can see that we have little time left in this facility. Jedore presents an imminent threat. I've secured passage off-world, but I must finish and dispose of all my research before leaving. We will leave behind nothing for these idiotic mercs."

She looked doubtfully over her shoulder at the growing tank behind her.

"If you say so. I just hope we'll be able to grow him in time."


End file.
